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Sevryn has been in awe of the ancient history of the Dwemer for as long as he can remember. Though Dwarven ruins and artifacts were few and far between in the Ayleid strewn lands of Cyrodiil, growing up on the Gold Coast in the port city of Anvil afforded him the opportunity to see plenty of exotic goods that flowed in from the booming sea trade.
Dwemer goods, though outlawed for trade in the Empire like ebony and glass, came in often. Dwarven coins, utensils, cogs, books, scrolls, art, and scrap metal were but a few of the treasures offloaded from smuggler ships and into the hands of the black market. He knew those underground traders well and, while he didn’t have a home to decorate and couldn’t purchase the goods, they allowed him to sate his curiosity and take a look at every shipment.
Now that he’s arrived in Vvardenfell he can see the last vestiges of Dwemerii civilization in the flesh. The crumbling statues, fallen bridges, and rusting ruins were more beautiful than he could have ever imagined - more dangerous, too.
He’d only ventured into one so far. Arkngthand, a large ruin sitting on a mountain overlooking the imperial fort and the city of Balmora, had been agony. He survived it, just barely, but the ghostly figures and screeching automatons he had to fight there still haunt his nightmares.
He’s glad he found the puzzle cube for Hasphat, he’s also glad he never has to go back. It was unbearably hot and he’s certain he could hear the vibrations of Red Mountain through the singing pipes. Even with the high ceilings, Sevryn felt so claustrophobic that he thought he might pass out. The rumbling of the long abandoned machinery, the clanking of the rusty cogs slipping off their tracks with every turn, the whispers of the long dead Dwemer, and the hissing of the steam bursting from old pipes or rising from pits of lava - it all was too much.
Maybe he’s not cut out for this adventuring thing, Sevyrn thinks as he sits atop a large mushroom stump with his sketchbook cradled on his lap and a stick of charcoal in his hand. His perch is on a hill overlooking the ashy Foyada Mamea and he clumsily sketches the ruins of Arkngthand that tower along the other side of the ravine. The outside isn’t so bad. He’d much rather study the architecture while surrounded by birds and grass.
Sevryn never had a penchant for art, but upon his arrival in this new land, and maybe because of his previous years locked in the Imperial City’s dungeon, he felt the urge to begin documenting the wondrous things he encountered. He also found, as his skills grew, that his sketches and watercolor paintings could easily pay for his lodging or food for a few days - if he found the right buyer.
While the sun is still high in the sky and the air clear of ash storms, he scribbles furiously. Towering golden spires with glass observatories, pipes still emitting clouds of steam poking out from crumbling cliffs, spans of flat, bronze bridges connecting the towers, and elaborately sculpted rotundas that, back in the day, he thinks used to slide open to allow for sun. These are just a few of the breathtaking views he has from his lookout. For a long lost civilization in a land with such violent storms, their strongholds have stayed remarkably well preserved.
‘Beautiful,’ Sevryn thinks with a smile, and flips to a new page to capture a family of cliff racers circling above the gleaming fortress.